a fingernail of moon outside the small window in my trailer bedroom.
It felt like I got ten minutes’ worth. A little after three my phone jolted me awake.
It was Kate Richess.
“They’ve arrested Eric,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Arrested Eric? What for?”
No answer. I could hear her labored breath.
“Kate, what was he arrested for?”
“For… killing his brother.”
I didn’t say anything. My thoughts weren’t exactly jelling.
“What can we do?” Kate said.
“Where is he?”
“Jail, downtown. He asked me to call you. I’m sorry I woke you. I just can’t sleep, I can’t do anything.…”
“I’ll go see him tomorrow.”
“Don’t let this happen, Ty. I can’t lose my other son.”
I wish I could have waved a magic wand for her. But this wasn’t sounding good at all. Brother killing brother, that was the oldest crime on the books. Cain killed Abel. After that, Cain was a goner. Convicted and sentenced. The boy never had a chance.
Lawyers hadn’t been invented yet.
46
IN THE EARLY afternoon I drove downtown with Sister Mary.
The Twin Towers Correctional Facility is on Bauchet Street, across from the Men’s Central Jail. A newer and more secure housing than Central, it is usually reserved for the more troublesome inmates, like heavy gangbangers, or those with severe medical needs.
They call the design of the place “panoptic,” which basically means they can always see you. You can’t always see them.
Creepy.
We entered the lobby and walked past the long row of cement benches, where the public waits to be called up for visitations. Sister Mary sat on one of the benches and took out a book.
I went to the front window and gave them my attorney slip, which had Eric’s name and booking number on it, and my Bar card and driver’s license. I signed in, and the large deputy with arms like logs said, “Fourth floor.”
I walked through the security scanner—they don’t allow any electronics or cell phones—bringing only my briefcase. Then I walked down the long corridor, alone but not alone.
There are cameras everywhere and hidden glass through which you can be observed. Even though I didn’t see another human body, I knew I was being watched. The institutional yellow walls, sort of early vomit, felt even more constrictive than normal.
There’s an antiseptic feeling to the place, no personality. You would think an inmate would prefer to be housed here, where you might only have one other cell mate, as opposed to four or five at Men’s Central. But the inmates actually like the camaraderie, if you can call it that, at Central. Here it’s like being housed in a Soviet prison.
Or a refrigerator. The air conditioning is always amped up. They could store meat as well as inmates. And some of the deputy sheriffs, who run the place, don’t really care to know the difference.
At the end of the corridor I came to the elevators, got in, and went up to the fourth floor. I turned right and went through the heavy metal doors and toward the attorney booth at the end. I walked by the bank of phones where the public talks to their inmates on the other side of the Plexiglas. You can see through the glass into the day room, where blue-clad inmates wander or sit, some looking at nothing, some playing cards. Some thinking, no doubt, about who they are going to hurt when they get out.
Across from the phone bank I punched the intercom button and announced my presence. Then I went into the open attorney booth, which is about twice the size of a phone booth, and sat down on my side of the Plexiglas.
There are no handsets in the attorney booth. A little microphone picks up everything on each side. On the inmates’ side there is a round bolt, the “doughnut,” in the middle of the table, to which they are shackled.
On the shelf in front of me some goober had left an empty Skittles bag and Juicy Fruit wrapper. This could have come from a slob attorney or even a member of the public. They leave the door of the attorney room open, and sometimes a person ducks in for a look.
The deputies don’t seem to care about that, and it shows.
A minute or two later, Eric, dressed in jail blues, was brought in by a deputy.
47
ERIC’S EYES WERE bleary, like he’d been crying.
“You okay?” I said.
“Do I look okay?” he said. “What is going on?”
“You tell me.”
“They’re saying I killed my own brother! Get me out of here!”
“Keep your voice low. Just